


First Aid

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Developing Relationship, Early 80s, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drinking is a constant. So are the fights. And the first aid kits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Aid

**Author's Note:**

> For Julie. RIP.

_September 1982._

Lars has a big mouth. A really big fucking mouth. I figured this out about him the first day I met him. Lars kept going on and on about this band and that band while his shitty kit kept crumbling before my very eyes. That didn't mean Lars's mouth was a constant cheese-grater on my nerves. No, that big mouth ended us up with a spot opening for Saxon earlier in March, got us gigs all over LA the entire summer, persuaded Cliff to join the band and move to San Francisco. But fucking hell if that mouth would just shut up at times, like now.

Usually I'd be shitfaced by now. Instead I'm nursing his fourth beer – a fucking fourth beer – while growling in Lars's direction. All the fans are crowded around him. Cliff abandoned us earlier to go smoke a joint with some friends of his. Dave ran off bar-hopping soon after. I should've gone with him. Or just gone somewhere. Anywhere. But I stayed behind, signed some autographs, awkwardly talked to some people... yeah. 

Really, it was cool. Two fans even bought me drinks. It's shit like that, fans who are cool enough to buy you drinks, that make me think, y'know, this rock star shit... it's gonna be alright, and pretty fun too. 

The voices around Lars all laugh, probably at some dumb joke he told. I snarl and take a pull from my full bottle. Sure, the rock star thing is okay, if you didn't factor in the loudmouth drummer who loved the spotlight a million more times than I did. If Lars could carry a tune without cracking windows, I'd gladly give up the mic to go hide behind the kit and play rhythm all night. 

Ugh, fucking Lars. He just casually enfolds himself around people, making them feel wanted, at ease, comfortable. The guy has a fuckin' natural talent for it. It's like he's perfect for the job that I supposedly have. 

Heh, what a great job I'm doing fulfilling it by letting the drummer do all the public relations shit... while I sit here and glare and growl. Like the jealous bitch I know I am. Fucking yay.

All frontmen are supposed to be like Lars. Steven Tyler, Ozzy Osbourne, even Freddie Mercury. They don’t act like me, drinking a beer all alone while snarling at everyone from the shadows. They'd be like Lars, entertaining the masses still, even off-stage. 

Fuck. I'm so fucking stupid. What the hell is wrong with me? I twist my fingers around the bottle's neck. Not going to win fans acting like a little pussybitch, are you Hetfield? 

Lars poses for pictures, signs a few jackets, laughs and talks and laughs again with fans. I should be like that. I should. I should get off my damn ass, finish the beer, walk over, and chat with them. I should. I'm the damn frontman, not Lars!

More people start to flock around Lars. He easily makes their night and sends them on their way smiling. My shoulders slump as I lean back into his seat. I stare at Lars and the fans for awhile. The bottle is Antarctica-cold against my palm.

I tilt my head back and drain my bottle halfway before slamming it down onto the wood surface, fingers gripping tight around the neck. 

Fuck the fans. Fuck Lars. Fuck... 

I chug down more beer, finishing off the bottle and sliding it away from me. 

Oh fuck it. Time to get shitfaced like I should be. 

I call for another beer. Another is served promptly. I drink lazily while watching Lars and the fans. They're just having a grand ol' fucking time without me, huh? Ugh. I should go and interrupt them so we can leave already. Just grab Lars and get the hell out of...

Wait. Wait a goddamn second. Why even bother for his scrawny ass? I should just get up and go. There's no reason to watch over him. I don't have to stay for him. He's going off doing whatever the fuck he wants, so why shouldn't I? Yeah... yeah why shouldn't I? 

I stand up with the bottle, glaring at him and the others. Fuck them. I don't need him. The bottle's drained by the time I slide away from the table, back turned. Yeah, deal with this one Lars. You want to have my job? Then fucking have it. 

I'm halfway to the exit when I hear a sharp cry then some cheers and shouts. Oh what now? Turning around, I search in the dim light for the source, and I think I stop breathing after that. 

Oh fuck!

Some dick has Lars up against the wall, hanging off the ground by the collar of his shirt. Lars is kicking and clawing, but there's no way he can fight him off. He's a goner. He's not going to make it.

... And we're so screwed for the next gig if he breaks a limb.

"Ah shit," I snarl under my breath, shaking my head. I crack my knuckles as I move over to the crowd. Time to put an end to this. There's no way anyone's beating up Lars but me first. 

I tap him on his shoulder. His head comes swinging around. I swing it right back when my fist connects with his cheekbone. He goes down to the ground. Lars slumps to the side with a grunt. I stand in front of Lars, fists out and shoulders squared. I'm angry enough for this. I need this. Come on fuck, let's go!

He stumbles back onto his feet, finds me with his bleary eyes. We deal blows to each other then. He's got some good moves, but I'm too angry to give in. His right hook gets me good in the shoulder, but I knock him out with a punch to the jaw. 

People swarm over the fallen guy as I shake my hands out. Shit, I hope I didn't break a finger or something, or Lars is paying for my damn bill. I don't care what the fight was about now. I just know it's his entire damn fault.

Speaking of the little snot-nosed prick... I turn around and find Lars still sitting on the ground, shirt all messed up and hair disarrayed. He looks up at me with... fuck if I know, but he's smiling. He looks... relieved, I guess. Hmmph. Should be, since I saved his loudmouth ass.

As jittery as he looks – because yeah I can see the shake in his arms – I don't have any sympathy. I grasp him by the arm, yank him up and drag him out of the bar behind me. Of course the little primadonna is bitching left and right about his treatment, but fuck all if I'm going to let up.

Once we're outside and in a good earshot away from the bar, I swing around and snarl right into his face, nose-to-nose, "Pull that shit again, and you'll be meeting the end of my fist." 

His green eyes are wide, jaw just a little open. "Uh," he whispers. He blinks a few times. "Y-yeah." Well that's just great, he got the message. Let's hope for some application here. Yeah, right. Fucker.

I roll my eyes and jerk him besides me so we're side-by-side. "Let's go home," I snap, and start walking fast. He has to take two steps for every long stride I make. Fuck it, I have bruises and a pulsing headache. 

There's not much I remember when we get back to the house. I stumble into the bedroom, fall on top of the mattress, and I’m out, right into a nice dreamless sleep.

Next thing I see in the morning are bandages around my fingers, a patch over my bruised shoulder, and Lars sleeping on the floor besides me with antiseptic and cotton balls all around him. I kind of stare at him for awhile, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

Well. Motherfucker. He must've done it when I was asleep then. Huh. 

I keep watching him from the mattress, my head on the pillow turned towards him. He looks peaceful, his dry lips parted in sleep, small snores rising forth. 

I guess the stupid little shithead does care about things who aren't himself then. He still stinks though. Fucking Danes and their lack of bathing.

Something Lars said must've provoked the guy into wanting to pulverize him. I have no idea why. I don't think Lars will tell me either when he wakes up. But at least Lars gives a damn when he should. It's a delayed response, that's for certain, but at least he tries. 

Still... he has this coming.

I reach out and pull his hair, jerking him awake as I fall back to sleep all casual-like on the mattress. I peek at him from under my hair, stifling my laugh as he jerks around like a startled terrier wondering what happened and who the fuck did it. He glares at me for a moment, knowing it had to be me. The glare fades away into that same look from before. He gives up with a sigh and falls back to sleep on the floor. 

Heh. I curl around my pillow and close my eyes. Fucking bigmouth. A little thoughtful fucking bigmouth. 

 

 

_March 1984._

Now what the hell was he up to? I have no patience anymore for his bullshit. My fuse is getting close to nil. If he doesn't get his goddamn Danish ass away from these people anytime soon I'm going to do us all a favor and knock him out cold. I might do us a favor and break his jaw in the process. He’s a drummer; he doesn’t need to talk.

He's been rambling on and on for the past hour now, and I know it wasn't all about the band. There's not many of us here in the bar. It's us, Cliff, Kirk, some of our friends, and a few drunk stragglers. One of said stragglers is now dueling Lars in a battle of wits. And while Kirk and Cliff besides me think it's the funniest shit in the world, I want to just walk on over and finally shut Lars's trap closed. 

It was supposed to be simple. We record, we finish, we leave for the bar, we drink at the bar, we have a good time, we say our goodnights and head to the room, we drink some more probably, and then we go to sleep. How simple was that? But nope, fucking bigmouth has to go and make a scene in his native tongue right in front of all the people he knows. He has to go ahead and fucking fuck up all our fucking plans. 

I know I should be used to this by now. Ever since the first time I saved his bigmouth from certain death back in '82, I should've known it would be like this. He opens his mouth, he flocks the crowd towards him, things go fine for awhile, and then one bad word said, one wrong thing utter, one simple fucking phrase misinterpreted, and there I come to interfere, back him up, and more than likely step in. And what does he do? Just stand there all stupid and let me do it. Or like he has done a few times, he turns around with his tail between his legs and gets away.

Dickhead. I order some whiskey on the rocks. Stupid piece of shit. I barely give the bartender time to set it on the table before I chug it down and ask for another. Bigmouth motherfucker. When was he _ever_ going to learn? 

He looks so stupid talking in his native tongue with that ridiculous mustache. He said he wanted to emulate Cliff since he had such a cool look. Yeah right, and I've got long blonde hair so I can be like Jon Bon Jovi. Please. I know there's another reason for it. 

He has this certain way about him when he's lying. That's the benefit of being a quiet people watcher all the time. I can look for mannerisms that signal to me when someone is shitting me or not. And Lars's are so obvious. They’re like a foghorn at a lighthouse– you can hear it _and_ see it a mile away. But hell if Lars was going to tell me, and hell if I was going to ask him. That was Lars's business, not mine.

I think I've hinted at him for the past month or two to finally shave the rat off his upper lip, but he won't listen. It's not like I'm about to outwardly tell him why I think he should shave it off. He looks fucking stupid and... and ugly! He looks like shit with that damn thing. Cliff can pull it off, I can pull it off, but him? Fuck no. But knowing the little shitface, he'll just snort, roll his eyes, click his tongue and say, 'What are you, my mother? Fuck you!' Then he’ll flip the bird at me and go his own merry little way doing whatever the fuck he wants.

Yeah yeah, he has every right to look and act the way he wants, but it's been bugging me. Why, hell if I know for certain. But every time I look at it I just want to drug his drinks, carry him back home, and shave the fucker off while he's asleep. He'll look better that way. He'll look more like Lars than he does now. Not like a Cliff wannabe. 

Why the hell does this bother me? Why does _he_ get to me? Why do I keep staying with him, watching over him? Why have I kept saving his ass when the fights get too intense for him to handle? Why don't I just let him get the shit kicked out of him? Lord knows he needs a damn ass-whooping to bring him back to reality. Maybe a broken arm will finally knock some sense back into him, force him to wake up and realize it's about the music, not about other people or his own little ego-stroking.

Time and time again I could've let it happen, but I didn't. I step in right in time, save his ass, get beaten up, then haul us back home so I can chew him out verbally. Of course the little shit apologizes, tends to my injuries and says sorry for days on end until I finally forgive him. Fucking little black dog, that's what he is, chewing and snarling and whimpering until he got his way. Until I gave in. And I did. Why for? To keep watching over him? To make sure we didn't miss a gig because of his stupid mouth? 

A strong hand clasps my shoulder knocks me out of my thoughts. I look up to see Cliff smirking down at me, Kirk at this side. 

"Keep an eye on our drummer," Cliff says. 

Oh shit they’re leaving. Oh fuck me. "Dude, we should go together," I wheedle casually. "I'll go get him."

"Man you couldn't pry Lars away from a crowd for anything and you know it," Cliff snickers. Kirk does too. Fuckers. He pats my shoulder again, giving it a squeeze. "Just make sure he doesn't break a bone."

"No guarantees," I snarl as the two of them leave me behind. Yeah, no guarantees that it won’t be me who breaks his bones, the dick.

They're laughing together as they head on out, waving over their shoulders. I just order another whiskey and drink straight out from the bottle. It's only a matter of time it seems until Lars gets his ass in trouble, right? Might as well enjoy my private time before it goes all to fuckin' hell.

I drink a quarter of the whiskey down, the burn feeling so good as it settles in the pit of my stomach. Fuck yeah, now this is good shit. I turn around and watch him talk, his hands gesticulating everything he says. 

Godfuckshit, look at him. He's such a fucking... kiss-ass. He would probably go in front of his knees right now, sucking all their cocks just to make sure they would guarantee to buy our new album when it comes out. 

Ugh, now look at him, touching the guy's shoulder, laughing and shit. Who cares? Just drink Hetfield. Fucking get drunk. Who cares if Lars gets into trouble again? Just drink the bottle then get the hell out.

Fucking shithead, fucking dickhead, fucking... fucker.

Casual touching and little smiles and hugging and laughing and... 

More whiskey goes down. God it feels so good. I turn away from Lars and growl under my throat.

He's a fucking _flirt!_

Half the bottle is gone by the time I slam the glass end onto the table. The bartender looks warily at me. Fuck him. Fuck this. Fuck _everything._

Oh this just sounds like a broken record, doesn't it Hetfield? You sitting here growling and snarling while Lars hangs over everyone. How about a change of pace? How about getting off your ass and heading back to the hotel and leave him be?

I sigh harshly, taking another swig of whiskey. No, that's not an option. It's never been an option. I have to sit and wait and help out, pull Lars away or step in, and then drag the two of us back. It's always been that way. So I have to stay and watch his flirting loudmouth ass. 

Ah fuck it. Who cares if he's flirting? He does it all the time, Hetfield. What makes this time any different? Who cares what he looks like? What he acts like? I swallow more whiskey. Leave him be Hetfield, let him do what he wants. He'll do it whether or not you say anything anyway.

You know, this makes me think. I've been in fights myself, but would he be in my corner? Good question. More than likely he'd just laugh and point, or he'd run away and tell the others, or he’d just stand and watch me fight. Maybe Cliff would come in, but nope, not Lars. Too much of a damn–

Aaand there it is, right on cue. Someone thrown into chairs, people gasping and shouting. Brawl time, time to do your other job Hetfield.

I rub my face and sigh. For once, can I just drink in peace? Please?!

Ah what am I saying, I'm so fucking pissed off that I have to do this again for fucking Lars that I'm welcoming this. I better finish this drink off before I head in and save Lars's ass.

"Come on!" I hear Lars shout. "Let's go, you and me!"

Woah now... am I hearing right? Did he just say that?

I turn around in the stool, bottle still in hand, and– shit it almost falls through my fingers. 

He's doing it. He's actually standing up for himself. Holy shit.

Lars has a split lip as the guy charges after him, but he's not backing down. He's standing up to him. The guy has a foot on him, but he's not giving up. He punches, scratches, ducks out of the way, using his quickness to his advantage. But the guy is definitely stronger. I really don't blame Lars when he kicks him right in the balls. Anything to survive.

We make eye-contact and he bolts right over to my side, abandoning the fight without thought. He's panting hard, flushed and wide-eyed. The adrenaline is still rushing through him, but I can definitely sense the panic there. I know what he needs. He doesn't have to say a word. I'm there.

I grab his arm like I always do and drag him out behind me, glaring at everyone as we leave. Just let them try anything. I'm still in a foul mood from earlier. I'm itching for a fight now. For their sakes, they get the hint. Language barrier or not, my death glare says more than words ever can. 

It's fucking frigid as all hell as we walk down the streets back to the hotel. I pull up Lars to me, wrap my arm around his shoulders. He's shivering like hell, and I know it's not from the cold itself. He’s shaken up. And while I'm glad I didn't have to step in like I usually do, I'm vaguely disappointed. I really did want to punch someone's lights out. 

Back in our room, I let Lars strip down and shower first. I know he needs it more than I do. He takes an hour long, and while in the past I would've started knocking on his bathroom door yelling at him to get out, I don't this time. Let him have it as long as he needs.

When he comes out dripping wet, towel around his waist, I take my turn. His skin's still pale and flushed. There's a tremor in his arms. That cut on his lip doesn't look pretty either. I notice also a few bruises starting to form. I’ll have to take care of that. 

What am I saying? Stop it Hetfield. He's a big boy. He can do it himself. Just look at him today. He took care of that dickhead all alone. He doesn’t need your help.

Of course when I shower all the hot water's gone. I manage though. It's funny, really. I got so used to saving his ass that I'm vaguely disappointed that I didn't get to. Yet, at the same time, I'm proud he finally did it himself. It was about damn time he did. He can't rely on me forever. So good for him. I should get over my disappointment. Good for Lars. 

He's still drenched from head to toe in his towel when I leave the shower. The radio's on, some DJ talking. Hell if I know what he's talking about. I can only pick out the word ‘Gasolin’ and that’s only because it sounds English. The rest is in that fucking weird language Lars has. 

Hmm, he doesn't look like he's moving anytime soon. Probably still shaken up... looks like I have to push him in the right direction still. There you go, you stupid side of me who feels disappointed. Satisfied now? Ha. 

I walk over to my bag and dig out the first aid kit, an essentiality Lars convinced me of buying after my first fight. Thankfully this one was replenished. New antiseptic, new bandages. Awesome. 

Lars glances up at me when I sit down next to him, kit in my lap. The bruises on his shoulders are turning purple now. I think I see fingermarks on his neck and jaw. Damn he took a pounding. But he didn't back down. He really did do me proud.

A little voice in my head tells me I should reciprocate all the times he took care of my injuries when I fought, but I don't give into it. He took care of himself. He can do it again. 

"Here," I say, and pop open the kit. I put it into his lap. Now he can fix himself up. 

Green eyes stare right at me, unwavering. He looks like... I don't know, he looks like he's thinking. It's a contemplative look. He's like... fuck, analyzing me? I guess. That's weird. Why would he do that? 

He sighs and looks away from me, down to the kit in his lap. I want to move away from him, leave him be, go to sleep finally, but... I stay. He really looks like he needs to say something to me. Or maybe something in general.

A Danish song comes on the radio. It sounds pop-ish, synthesizers and a really soft guitar. No idea what it is, who it is, but it has to be popular since I've heard it before while I've been here. Hmm.

"You know why I have a mustache?" he asks flatly.

The sudden sound of his voice startles me a bit. "Yeah," I mumble.

I watch how his eyes close and his shoulders slump. His hair falls into his eyes. For awhile, I just hear the Danish song on the radio. 

"I got tired of people picking on my looks," he says. He rubs his face, pulling at his skin, sighing. "Calling me girly and shit." He snickers bitterly. "Thought they'd leave me alone."

"I don't under..." 

Oh shit. Oh no. No way. No. They didn't... did they?

He glances up at me through his hair, observing me. He shakes his head, smiling. "Groping sucks when you don't want it," he murmurs. His eyes glance down, away from me to the wall. "I'd rather be called names than that."

Shit. Now it makes sense. The bruises on his shoulders and neck, the cut on his lip... I had wondered why he got that first before the guy attacked him. There hadn't be a fist shot there. 

All those times. Fuck. I honestly thought it was just his big mouth. He talks so much and has gotten into fights so many times in the past because he pissed off the wrong person with his big mouth that I thought it was just that. But... but now... 

That's not fair. It's not right. Fucking assholes, it's not Lars's fault he looks like he does. It's who he is. He doesn't have to get a mustache to fit in. He doesn't have to change for anyone but himself. 

I take the kit away from him. Lars sits up totally as I fish through the packets and gauzes to find the right things I need. Alcohol wipes, antiseptic, a bandage. Good.

Our eyes meet again. He's wondering what I'm doing. He looks confused, curious. 

I don't look away as I rip open the alcohol wipe. I grasp his chin in one of my hands, watch how his green eyes widen further and how his lips tremble as I gently brush the alcohol wipe over his deep cut. 

Still holding his chin, looking straight into his eyes, I rub some antiseptic onto the cut. Not too much, I don't want any to land into his mouth accidentally. Just enough to heal the cut faster. 

I have to let go of his chin to open the bandage though, so it can go into place perfectly. Maybe a bandage on a cut lip isn't the smartest thing to do. It's gonna look ridiculous. But it's just us. He can remove it in the morning if he wants to.

My fingers hold his face, splayed over his soft cheeks. He stares so openly at me. Still curious, but also... something else. It reminds me of the first time I saved him back in '82. He stared at me then like he is now. Admiring, I think. Wondering, startled. Something.

I slide my hands up to fully cup his cheeks. I hope he does listen to me about this. 

"Get rid of the 'stache," I murmur. "Be you. Fuck everyone else."

I wait until his lips slowly close and he nods even slower. I lean forward and rest our foreheads together for awhile. My fingers slide up into his wet hair. It feels... good. He listened to me. He should be himself. Nothing else. Just Lars.

On impulse I lean up and kiss his forehead. I hate words. I'm not good at them. But I hope that gets through to Lars what he means to me. And I think by that smile on his face, even with the bandage over his cut, he does understand. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't smile back.

 

 

_May 1987._

"Run faster, short shit!"

"Fuck you!" he snaps back.

"That the best you can come up with?"

Ohhh that got him good. He's too busy breathing to bother coming back with a better one, I can tell. Him flipping me off was the obvious sign. Point one to me.

"The fuck... is... the truck?" Lars pants out. His red-face and sweaty cheeks mean only one thing. The dynamo bigmouth is finally getting tired. About time. I thought the fight was enough to wear him out. Instead he got more enthusiastic. With his enthusiasm came more stupid shit he shouldn't have said. Ah well, that's Lars...

I lead the way, thankful I parked far away from the bar. We'll be long gone before the assholes get to us. They're drunker than us anyway. Haha, drunker than us! Thank goodness for that though.

Ahh there's my baby. I double-time, open the driver's side, unlock Lars's side, and start up the engine just as Lars finally catches up with me. He's barely got one foot in the truck by the time I get out of park, and he slams the door just as I pull out of the driveway to the open road.

Lars pushes strands of sweaty hair out of his red face. "Fuck! You couldn't have waited for me, huh fucker?" He giggles and punches my shoulder playfully. "Dick!"

I roll my eyes and take the ramp to the freeway. "It's your fault we had to run, you know. You just had to keep badgering those fuckers until their reinforcements arrived."

"Well how was I supposed to know they were apart of a gang, huh?" he asks, poking my shoulder.

I shrug him off, glaring sideways at him briefly. "The bandanas around their heads all matched and they all had wristbands that had the gang name." I snicker and look back at the road. "Dumbass."

"Tch. Whatever." He buckles himself up, grinning ear-to-ear despite the anger I'm clearly showing on my face. "It was a lot of fun anyway and don't you deny it."

Dick. I smirk against my will. He knows me too well, knows how to read through me like I can with him. We need to stop hanging out. It's getting sickening how we can figure out what the other says before he says it. 

Lars is right. It _was_ fun. The guys were asking for it anyway. They were such damn poseurs. Metalheads who thought Bon Jovi and Motley Crue was metal, _and_ had the audacity to say they were better than us? Oh hell no. Neither I nor Lars were going to stay quiet. We shared a look, got up together, cracked our knuckles, and made our presence known. 

I should've known by the bandanas around their heads that they were in a gang. I should've judged better. But fuck it, Lars was ranting a mile a minute, provoking them until they couldn't hold themselves back anymore. Side by side, we took the three of them down. We worked as a team. No one takes a piss on our band while the actual founders are there and present and listening, assholes! We were mad, we were angry, and dammit, we took them down and out. 

He's grown up so much over the years. From the first time I saved his ass, to the time he told me why guys roughed him up, to now. He's gotten much more confident, stronger. He's still a damn loudmouth, still a damn flirt, but at least we fight together now. 

When it's the two of us together, it's not just me fighting in Lars's place. We fight side-by-side now. I let Lars handle his own messes, but if it gets too hairy, I'm there. I back him up. He backs me up. We're Hetfield-Ulrich, the unstoppable team, and you don't fuck with us. 

The new album is even reflecting our camaraderie. We're writing day in and day out, watching these movies Lars thinks will get me inspired, watching television programs, talking politics, society, the like. I show him lyrics, he gives me riff ideas, we jam together... it's turning out to be brutal, really dark. It's exactly what we need. After Cliff's death, we both need it.

He flips on the radio, flipping through the channels for the right music. Little shit still has some energy in him. He's mumbling about the shitty music shit radio plays. Every word has 'shit' or 'fuck' in the middle of it. Lars isn't exhausted yet. 

Eventually he settles on Iron Maiden. Alriiight. About time the radio plays something good. I tap my fingers on the wheel to the beat, and– and what the fuck. Oh what the flying fuck.

I turn to Lars. Lars turns to me. 

_Run to the hills,_ Bruce sings. _Run for your lives..._

We're in tears and stitches by the time I get off the freeway. It's difficult as all fuck trying to drive while laughing so hard, especially up these hills to get to Lars's house, but we get there in one piece at least. Sometimes I think life has it in for me to make everything ironic as all hell. 

At the house we're still laughing, singing lyrics here and there. Lars is stumbling all over the place. I think the exhaustion is finally hitting him, probably the alcohol too. I get a good grip on his shoulders and steer him to the house. 

Shit we're just knocking into each other. I think the alcohol is hitting me too. Heh, little bigmouth is giggling like a loon, red-faced and sweaty. I help him pick out his keys from his pocket, otherwise we'd just be standing in his front porch all night. 

He slumps forward into the house and I grab him before he falls onto his face. Lars is still murmuring Maiden as he clings to my shirt, giggling and snorting. Yep, he's definitely lost the plot now. I hook my arm around his waist and drag him inside, shutting and locking the door behind us. 

For once I'm thankful Lars has a big house. Usually I hate how large it is. More than once I’ve gotten lost trying to find the damn bathroom. Shortshit just loves having all this extra space. He probably bought it to drive me mad. But tonight, its size serves my purposes. 

I drag him over the guestroom, the one I'm using while we work together on the album. He comes to his senses as I lay him down on the bed. He looks up at me with big green eyes blinking wildly, confused and curious. He's probably wondering how he got into my room. 

I ruffle his hair, smiling down at him. "Dumbass," I murmur. "How are you feeling? Anything hurt?"

He groggily checks himself over, tilting his head a little forward, eyes dragging down his torso and legs. Then he lifts his arms sluggishly, scanning them at the same slug-like pace. His head flops back onto the pillow and he cheekily grins up at me.

"Headache," he croaks. "Aspirin." 

Hmm, Lars and one worded answers means only one thing– yep, definitely knackered for sure. Knackered and will start whining if I don’t get him what he wants right this second. Little fucking kid, that’s what he is, has always been. 

"Stay there," I murmur, sighing and shaking my head. "Aspirin and water, coming right up."

He grins even wider. He knows he’s a spoiled little shit. I ruffle his hair again, giving it a small tug. Lars growls mockingly and I roll my eyes at him. Little shit. He'll never change. 

When I get back to the room with his glass and aspirin, he's already sitting up in bed shirtless and barefoot. His shoes and socks lay on the ground next to the discarded shirt. The top button of his jeans is undone. He looks up at me grinning, looking like he's fucking happy to be there and, shit, not willing to move at all. Fucking great.

I sigh and hand him over his water and aspirin. I guess he's sleeping here... well, unless I throw him over my shoulder and drag him up those mountain of stairs to his own room. Hmm... the thought is quite tempting. But. Eh, I'm not in the mood. I'm too fucking tired. Ah well, the couch is as damn comfy as my bed. Besides, I'll watch an action movie with a lot of explosions on his big screen TV so I can wake him up all night. Heh, payback is great.

Our fingers brush as he takes the glass from me. He's smiling at me with those green eyes of his. They're staring at me like he has done all these times before, with admiration and respect and surprise and... fuck if I know what else. Even as he places the pills in his mouth one after the other and takes generous sips from his glass, he's still looking up at me with those eyes. 

Never have I found his stare uncomfortable. Now I can't deal with it. I know I have to leave. Let him have the room tonight, he's a bit drunk, exhausted from the fight, he should sleep, yup, totally sleep, and I should go to the couch and put in, um, First Blood, sounds good, yeah, and get some chips and sober up, yup, totally should.

I brush my hands on the sides of my jeans, as if I had something there that I needed to wipe away, badly. I think I give him a smile. I hope it's not as awkward as I feel. Dammit all to shit fuck hell. He pulls the glass away and places it on the nightstand, still looking right at me. Alright, time to make my exit. 

"Night," I blurt out, turning on my heel and making a beeline for the door. Exit Hetfield, stage right. Left. Just leave dammit.

The tight grip on my wrist stops me cold. I turn back around and look down at Lars. His eyes are still the same, wide and big and... something that I think I really don't know the word to, or the words for that matter.

He pulls me forward, back to where I was standing close in front of him. With his hand still on my wrist, he stands up from the bed, our eyes still locked. 

We're so close. We haven't been this close to each other since that night in '84, when we were actually sober. Other times, yeah, but never sober. 

His chest presses onto mine. His hand still holds my wrist. I'm staring so intently into his eyes that I miss the brush of his other hand on my cheek, fingers tracing the side of my jaw. I stiffen at the touch. It... it feels good.

He doesn't stink anymore. He smells good. Sweaty, but nice. I can smell the vodka. I can smell him. I can feel him. 

I feel like I did back in '84. Except then, I was touching him. Now, he's touching me. He's the one who has something to say, while I'm the one looking curious at him, wondering what he's about to do.

His fingers slide up my cheek to cup it. It's a gesture that reminds me so much of the past, so much of then. We're gazing at each other. He's all green eyes, and I'm sure if I was Lars, I'd be all blue eyes.

The second our lips meet, both our eyes fall shut. His grip on my wrist releases as I wrap my free arm around his waist. He feels warm and soft. He's shaking like I'm shaking. I don't know what I'm doing, and neither does Lars. But fuck all if it doesn't feel good.

We pull back, but I move back in to capture his lips again. His arms wind around me, around my neck, around my back. He tilts his head and opens his mouth, and I dive right into a fight again. 

Our tongues meet and duel. It's fucking intense as hell... it's like we're ripping into each other, fighting each other with everything but our fists. We fall backwards onto my bed. Lars rolls on top of me, gripping my hair, my skin. I roll on top of him, sucking his bottom lip, his upper lip. 

Grunts and moans fly through the air along with our clothes. I can't stop even if I wanted to, and I'm sure Lars is in the same predicament. I have no fucking idea where this is all coming from, this want and need to kiss him and touch him and... and fuck, all of this, but I'm not about to stop it. I can't stop it.

Our hands bump as we fight to take each others jeans off. Our skin glides as we touch each other for the first time, gasping into each others skin. We move as one rocking force, jerking each other off, kissing and sucking and grunting as the pleasure tumbles over into a white nothingness and we buck into each others fists with twin cries. 

He's half on top of me and I'm half on top of him. His sticky hand is on my chest, and my sticky hand is on his back. He pants into my skin, I pant into his hair. 

I don't know what to say to him. I don't know how to explain this. I have no idea if he has any clue why we did this. I don't know why I even wanted this, wanted him. I don't... I don't understand. I'm more confused than I ever was before.

Lars wraps a leg around mine. He tilts his head back so we can make eye-contact again. He's smiling, green eyes sated and... content. Truly content.

"My savior," he murmurs. He leans up and kisses me gently, tracing the side of my lip in a gesture that rings bells in my head. "My James."

Shit. Oh shit fuck _shit._ All those times. All those things. I know that gesture. I know that look. I know all of this, everything, I...

Now it makes sense. Everything makes fucking sense. My actions, my thoughts, my... fuck, everything! It finally makes sense. Fucking finally. 

Lars looks at me alright. His green eyes stare at me with admiration. They always have. They stare at me with wonder. They stare at me with curiosity. I think they always will. But now, now I know what he looks at me with. What he truly sees me with. All those times in the past, all those thoughts I had, all those things I did for him, all those things he did for me. It finally makes sense.

Only Lars stares at me like this. Only Lars will. I realize that now. Maybe my subconscious is smarter than my conscious side, heh, because it sure as hell knew why I wanted Lars more than I did myself. The jealousy, the anger, the snide remarks, all that shit I did. The apologizing, the post-fight cleaning up, the look. Yeah. Now I know why. Now I get it.

I lean forward and dip my head to kiss his soft lips, rubbing the side of his mouth where the cut used to be. When I first subconsciously realized I cared about him. I still rub it as I pull away, our noses brushing, staring right into his eyes. I give him back the same look he has given me all these years, and I'd be lying if I said there weren't tears in his eyes just from the sight of me finally reciprocating all he had given me.

"Always," I murmur affectionately in reply, then sweep back down and slide my lips over his. Our tongues meet, our legs twine, our arms touch and grasp and hold. He grins, and I grin, and we laugh and kiss and moan as we stare into each others eyes with the same beautiful look – the look that was a mystery until now.

I'm his savior, he said. His James. And Lars... he's my fucking bigmouth. My little thoughtful, loving, sweet fucking bigmouth. Always coming to his aid, as he comes to my own.


End file.
